27 February 2016

The roundel on the biplane is dissolving
from classic red/white/blue to stranger hues,
the ash propeller now has stopped revolving –
relaxing in its patent leather shoes.
The Bentley’s roar sounds more now like a symphony,
machine guns melt and drip through yellow skies,
where purple clouds have clearly got it in for me;
the Baron’s circus drowns in custard pies.
As Ginger’s Camel sputters off to starboard,
it looks more slug than dromedary;
while Bertie’s kite sprouts fuzz that’s freshly barbered
and Algy’s busy, dancing with that fairy,
I wonder, as I strafe the glowing sea,
if that was really sugar in my tea.

25 February 2016

Avert your eyes. There's nothing here to see.
So cross the road and think of something else
and close your ears to all their woeful pleas:
these people only care about themselves.
They've got their mansions in the Pyrenees,
and begging is a choice, that's all we'll say.
They'll spend it all on drugs and anti-freeze,
harassing folk and getting in the way.

At least, that's what we want you to believe,
so you'll all blame the poor and dispossessed
and give us politicians a reprieve -
our jobs are piled high with needless stress!
We’d love the chance to lie around all day;
instead, we're putting spikes inside doorways.